


Play Detective

by Ramona3x3



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stock Market, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Children, Crying, Detroit, Drug Use, Drugs, Gen, Harm to Children, Heroin, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Medicinal Drug Use, Men Crying, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, New York City, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Wammy House
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3492785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramona3x3/pseuds/Ramona3x3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an uncommon upbringing and a stifled adolescence, what will happen when L is put out into the great wide world on his own?</p><p>In this first chapter, a silent, introverted boy is given a name for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Etiquitte

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is really, really an old one of mine that I forgot where I was going with it, but the intro is hella angst, and I will leave it here for the masses.

The weather was fair for once in about two weeks of rain. Yes, it was all very gray, but light shoved itself through cracks in the blinds and it looked like day.

Sitting in the corner of the courtyard was a small boy. His hair was funeral black, and cut sensibly, stopping after brushing his ears. Wide eyes watched, but his body made no effort to join the playing boys around him. He took his hands out of the pockets on his thin jacket- they'd be cold no matter what he did- and felt the cobblestones that lined the meter-wide area surrounding the macadam of the play area. As previously stated, he sat alone and out of the way.

It wasn't home.

Then again, he hadn't thought about it for a while. It was as if home didn't exist anymore. There were abstract faces floating, but he couldn't remember much affection from them, or even aggression. They were, as he was.

He hoped someone would lose a ball over there. Having them see him felt nice, maybe they would offer to sit, also.

Yes, he liked it.

Affirming it to himself, he turned his attention, with more energy, to the boys playing kick the can. They ran after each other with savage drive over a can that lay barren. It was stupid, he told himself.

It was dumb.

He sat still and looked up at the everlasting gloom of the sky, and was greeted by a tiny raindrop hitting his cheek. The sky was his friend, he decided. It was some time later before another drop kissed his nose, and one more, and a few more, until it was just barely raining.

Looking around, he saw everyone else had gone inside, but the sky was asking him very nicely not to go. With a few more droplets, it was pleading, and he felt his jacket become slightly moist. Maybe he could just sit with his new friend...

Or, maybe not.

With a grumble of thunder, it was an object, and nothing to be affectionate towards. The corner became a place of safety- an umbilical cord attached him to the cobblestones. The day had gone, and he was still as-is, nothing to compare if it had occured. Hugging his arms around his chest, he felt the rain dampen his hair as runoff from the roof began to dribble onto him with an uncomfortable amount of force.

Moving out from under the stream, he shook the water from his head and headed inside, ignoring the wild sobbing of the skies. It was not his friend anymore.

He took his jacket off once he was inside, and it was measurably damp, as was his hair. He felt cold, even in the heat heaving through the vents and the radiators.

He wiped his feet beside the coat rack, and decided to take his jacket with him on a whim. He clutched it in his small fist as he walked towards the recreation room near the other conservatories and like frivolous additions.

He found a place to exist again in a parlor chair in he drawing room. He had to keep his feet on the floor- he was still wearing the shoes he was given upon arrival for everyday use. There really wasn't anywhere to put them except the dorm room he shared with four other boys, and he didn't necessarily feel like making that trek across the building.

Older boys were studying on the couches and occupying the desks like cans strewn in alleyways: somehow attending constantly. They didn't bother him, but they weren't much to watch. He exercised poor posture and slumped over an arm of the chair, a spring in response attempting to lodge it's way into a very personal place through the seat of his pants. He wiggled, and managed to trap it under his thigh as he set watching the students turn pages and pages away from the covers of their books.

One of them mentioned to another about some sort of test.

All he really knew regarding tests was that Mr. Wammy seemed very satisfied whenever he scored well. What he would do with the scores of papers was uncertain, but the meaning was important, on the very least at a superficial level.

His red Henley shirt was vaguely itchy, and irritated his armpit as he sat slumped. His coat lay at his side, and he collected it before heading out of the room, leaving the students undisturbed.

Passing the attached mini-cathedral he believed the building sprouted from, he heard a nun praying softly. It was rude to eavesdrop, and he didn't, but deducted dinner would be soon after hearing her mention blessing the meal.

Dinner was a fact, not a pleasure. Eating never sparked as a luxury, or as a thing to be rationed. It was merely a fact: you need to eat or you hunger. Dessert and sweet things never failed to please him, they were intended for enjoyment alone. Sugary syrups, boiled sweets, jams and marmalade were all made to give immediate pleasure. It would be utterly rude to rob such un-food of it's purpose.

Etiquette or lack thereof was a fixation of the adults around him now, not caring wasn't an option if (and they always did) someone else cared. However, expressing pain when someone hurt you- especially unintentionally- was regarded impolite and juvenile. In his opinion, adults needed to busy themselves with other hobbies.

Dinner was served at six: vegetable soup with plain toast. He swallowed the soup and munched on his toast, and waited calmly to be dismissed. The bottom his immediate right was slurping loudly against the moderate din, a dribble of the rusty liquid running down his multiple chins. Disgusting.

He didn't consider himself a Nancy-boy or a prude, but basic dignity should be universal. Eat like an animal, lay in your excrement like an animal, be treated as an animal.

He was called into Mr. Ruvie's office later that evening, but Mr. Wammy was there to greet him.

"We haven't been able to turn up any records of you adding to or conflicting with what you've told us... Are you sure you don't know your first name? Your parents? Where you lived?"

He'd thought about it now and again, and he never thought to remember, and thusly didn't forget what he didn't know to start with.

"No? Well, for all intensive purposes, we've put your initial as your first name. We will refer to you as L."

Huh. One letter. Really, anything can be a name, it shouldn't surprise him.

"Does that suit you?"

He nodded gently, it did suit, indeed.

"That's good. Now to discuss... other things. Are you bored, L?"

"Yes."

It came easily, he was very bored. He'd completed the jigsaw puzzles left out for months, counter ceiling tiles. There was nothing for him to do.

"I thought so. All the tests are indicative that you are a very logical person- nearly algorithmic... But, this means plenty of puzzles. Do you like puzzles?"

"Yes."

"Good! I'll begin gathering a few for you- funny we haven't already had a few around. In a gifted institution, they all seem to want to play physical games to get some energy out or to read for enjoyment... quite a few tinker in the science labs after schooling hours, also. Is there anything you'd like to talk about, L?"

"No."

"It is late, I should let you head off to bed. Goodnight."

He rose from the chair and left without another word with the man trying very hard for something he couldn't identify.

The walk back was fine, he decided he'd shower in the morning and changed into his pajamas under the eyes of a boy who was sharing the room with him. Meeting eyes too quickly caused the other to look away and turn his once-broken nose back to his bruised ribs. That boy was newer than his was... Wasn't his name something Clay? Clay.

His own winter pajamas (it was March) were pilled and torn. A red flannel nightshirt with a yellow bear accent displayed on his chest. Although the back of his thighs will chill when he got up, he was kept warm, especially so if he wore socks to bed.

He laid on top of the covers on his bank and watched his roommates undress, redress, and perform nighttime rituals. He never felt the voluntary urge to pray, but not praying at mass was regarded impolite.

They switched the light off two minutes before it was mandatory and shifted beneath the sheets for comfort that was spread thin.


	2. Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small L finds himself in a bizarre state of wanting two conflicting things.

No one in the room could sleep.

Personally, he wished Clay would stop crying about his mother, because he felt the crushing heat in his chest again. It was wrapping it's thickness around his throat as he was reminded of how lonely he was. He really didn't like to think about that, partially because he didn't know how to make himself feel better. Like the sickness to your stomach you can't reach the pink medicine to, but there's no one to help you when you vomit all over yourself and begin to slip around in your own slime across the linoleum floor of the bathroom.

The answer he had been told many times before directly and indirectly was to introduce himself and be friendly. It wasn't that simple. What was the correct way to introduce yourself? Do you just... do it? And, friendliness is determined by (he assumed) the other person, so how do you determine what they want? Another common suggestion was to be himself, and he already was. It wasn't working. What else was there to be (he wasn't yet at the age of putting on the guises and the individual workings of a "false self")?

He really wished Clay would just go to sleep. He did this most nights. Nothing ever changes.

He also wished John Luke and Winny (Winefred) would follow suit, although he had no idea what they were upset about.

It was apparently contagious, because the tendrils of pressure were pushing whimpers through his lips and hot tears down his cheeks. Suddenly, he just wanted to let them fall. Maybe it would leave him alone. And, he tried to go to sleep, to run away from the discomfort, pulling the covers over his head and feeling the nightshirt run up his thigh.

With a soft knock at the door, a nun entered. It wasn't uncommon for them to roam, they often did sweeps after total curfew (which was about ten o' clock, and when even the oldest boys were required to get to their dorms for the night) in pairs through the upper and lower halls. It wasn't uncommon for them to hear Clay bawling, but only a few have ever done anything more than scold them for being awake. Now they were all awake, and his head swam with dread for the scolding and dizziness from breathing the hot air trapped under the blankets.

"Now, now, what's the fuss? All of you?"

Her voice was sweet and warbling, and he wanted it far away from him. She probably wouldn't want to talk to him anyway, none of the nuns or clergy cared to notice him. Who was being impolite then? No one. They had the upper hand; they were the town criers of all things unsuitable. It was how life was. They laughed when you fell. It was normal.

Memorize your prayers, or you're sacrilegious. Impolite to another power once you enter the sanctuary. People had died caring for this, so don't you mess up.

She walked over to Clay, who was the loudest, first and soothed him into a calm whimper with more unrecognizable warbling and a soft kiss on his forehead. He was easy to comfort, easier still when she turned on the lamp and bathed the room in warm light so he could see her face. Jealousy bloomed like a fire, but it was smothered with more of the constriction in his throat as more tears made the pillow damp and cool below his cheek.

Then to Winny across from him, but he didn't care to watch as she sat on the bed and straightened the covers on his chest. She took his round bifocal glasses off and folded them neatly on the nightstand between the two before he got an audible kiss, as well.

Our focus, slipping his thumb fully into his mouth, reached his fingers into his hair that was just long enough to clutch on to effectively and pulled with the pulse of his headache and his heartbeat threatening to pound if and when he began to really cry. He didn't want to do that.

John Luke was next, and with relief, jubilance, and raw disappointment L realized that he might not be visited after all. He suppressed the urge to sit up and let the pains rack through him, but curled his legs even tighter around his midsection. The grip on his hair was tightening, and his lip was bleeding; he did notwant to cry. She smoothed John Luke's hair, and asked soft questions to him- John Luke was always fairly talkative. He blubbered on about how he missed his sisters and his baby brother, and she reassured him thay wouldn't forget him as he couldn't forget them now. And, she kissed him like she had for the others and smoothed his hair one more time before turning to face L.

He was already turned away from her, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his thumb to keep form making any noise. He breathed so slowly he left his head becoming heavier until she pulled the covers away from his face and he dropped the act. It was childish and pitiful- utterly unattractive. While warding her off was the primary initiative, it was inconvenient to perform and may lead to future qualms. It was best not to lie, he'd remembered.

"What are you... Oh, dear."

She worked her away around to the other side of the bed and firmly, but carefully grabbed his shoulders and set him upright, his knees still bent but falling away from his chest. Both of his hands migrated from their previous posts to hide his face and protect his burning eyes from the light.

"Come now, what's the matter? Does anything hurt?"

From her standpoint, he appeared to be in great physical pain, and trying to hide whatever ailment from everyone. She wasn't too far from the truth.

He could lend no answer other than a sharp whine escaping as his right hand returned to tug on his hair, the section now twisted into a cowlick. To his innermost felt shame, the three other boys had sat up to some degree in their beds and were watching him cry. He didn't like it at all, but understood the appeal. He never spoke to any of them; the want had never crossed his mind.

"Oh, shh, shh, it's okay. You can cry, it's going to be all right from now on."

She pulled his hands away from his hair and his mouth to keep him from hurting himself and hugged him into her black robes. His cries were restrained, but forcing their way out of his small body. She raked her fingers lightly through the section of hair he had been trying to tear out, and felt it's unruly thickness but youthful softness. It would become coarse and unmanageable past a shorter haircut as he got older, but he might not go bald but so readily.

She knew he was the black sheep in the flock, showing signs of a mental abnormality, but he couldn't be but so bad. His birthday was October 31st, and particularly suspicious sisters avoided him. He always preferred to be on his own, sitting away from everyone and not appearing keen on being outwardly friendly.

It was fine, her brother was like that as a child, he grew up to be a businessman. His only son was called to war in 1940, and didn't come home, but that was the way in the wartimes.

She could feel his mouth gaping open, and his chest heaving with sobs muffled in his hands and her charcoal robes.

"Let it go, you're safe now."

He simmered down to whimpers and bleats and he wished with the smallest thought he could manage that she would rub his back- it hurt from tensing himself in trying to make himself disappear, specifically his lower sides. Everything hurt, and he felt too hot. He began to feel utterly sick with the nun, and couldn't imagine what would happen when she left. As if he was imaginative to start, but it was a fact.

"Come with me, come now..."

She took his hand and turned off the lamp beside Winny on their way out. He tried very hard not to look up and meet eyes, as if Winny could clearly define him. He had awful eyesight without his glasses. Still, he didn't want to be gawked at.

The back of his thighs felt a chill just as he had predicted, and he pulled the pilled front down to be sure he wouldn't feel an updraft. His stomach protested being folded, and he noticed how stuffed his nose felt. He proved it to himself when he tried to breathe through it after wiping some of the wetness off of his face. She continued to lead him until they were at the mouth of the hallway, and he was thinking about what was going to happen when he put his thumb back in his mouth out of another small wish of having something still comforting.

"Now, then... Are you feeling right?"

He nodded barely enough, he felt unreasonably afraid to look at the face looking down at him in the dimly lit hallway. He speculated quietly that the lights were on for reasons like this and unexpected fires as long as the breaker wasn't flipped or some other malfunction.

"I would still like to take you to the infirmary, can I look at you? Come now, look up..."

He trailed his eyes up the endless cloth and found her wrinkled face smiling gently at him. It hardly resembled a smile, but her eye-creases spelled out her intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get a lot less fluffy from now on...


	3. Circumstantial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The incompetence of some nurses transcends common sense and matronly instinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a little bit of bodily fluids in this, but no vomit. Proceed as you wish.

She took his small hand again without breaking her eye contact with his. She had never seen eyes so decadently dark. When it came to eyes, she liked to imagine as she would as a small girl God painting every eye to his liking- and how they were unique. It seemed God spilled the black ink for the pupil far beyond the lines and bathed the iris in obsidian shine.

They were red-rimmed, his face pinkening garishly to his cheekbones. His lips were bitten and wet, the corners quivering every now and again. The neck on his fleece nightshirt was overstretched from causes other than his well-formed (yes, that was important. She had seen many an oblong skull and a pinhead in her day) head. It exposed his collarbone which was defined and set back into his chest like a bird's skeleton. He was delicate and very fair-skinned, it was a wonder he wasn't obviously sickly. Still, she harbored suspicions he had caught a fever.

"Let's go the infirmary. I can stay with you if you want."

He didn't answer, but held her hand with more effort and kept her pace rather than be dragged along.

Sister Mary Monica was known by most staff to be a very patient (hence the name) and caring old Sister, taking on not an individual "project" child, but watching out for every child under her eyes when she would venture out. She would volunteer for sweeps as often as she could, and enjoyed comforting and helping the wards. Even at 88, she worked competently so she would be exhausted at the end of the day, which was risky for an old woman.

The late nights were a labor of love, and she found a virtue in making a boy feel less like a child, an object, and more like a being, like the soul God had sewn into the soil for a purpose and was expectant to meet again after a life well-spent, or well-redeemed.

Walking with her he admitted he felt less lonely, and wanted someone to hold his hand and walk with him forever in silence. The company was all he wanted. The presence was everything. Getting attention was an elementary tactic, infants would employ the same means, but he thoroughly enjoyed getting what he wanted.

A wave of drowsiness lapped against him as he closed his eyes. He quietly cursed the fatigue- sleep was merely a pain taking up too much time. He wanted to see everything that went on around him... Maybe when he was older.

It wasn't very often then he thought about getting older. It was a fact nevertheless.

He looked at the skirts striding with him; the nun wasn't shuffling about crippled, and that in itself was remarkable. Before long of watching the hypnotizing swishing, they were in a more sterile appearing part of the building housing Nursey's office, the infirmary, and (mere speculation) her bedchambers and private bathroom not to be confused with that of the infirmary. The Sister's shriveled hand reached to rap on the door before a woman appeared wrapped in her blue housecoat and a kerchief tied around her brown hair. Nursey was blonde, and slept in button down pajamas with bottoms.

"Hello, Melinda."

"She had business in London. It's Nancy. What... Who is this?"

He was sucking on the end of his thumb gently, and looking up at the woman with a kind of curious expectation. He didn't want to be sick, and he tried to remember if he threw up or something to signify that he was sick. Sure, he felt hot and choked and nasty, but he just wanted to go to bed and forget anything happened. Being dragged around wasn't fun anymore, and he remembered why he didn't want her to see him.

"I found him crying in his bed, wrapped around his stomach like he was in pain. Melinda- oh, I'm sorry- he wouldn't tell me anything, but I need to get to the sisters. He needs to be talked to..."

"Sister, he doesn't talk. But, I'll check him out, thank you."

The Not-Nursey had a Scottish accent so thick you could hit it with a hammer. The nun nudged him away from her, his tears drying and his face fading back into it's ordinary paleness. Nursey took him by his hand into the infirmary office, leaving her bedroom, and turning on one warm lamp. She directed him to sit in the flatulent vinyl chair beside it, and rifled through her drawers in the light that looked like fire. She found a thermometer and a washcloth, and walked back to him, wearing a stagnant and rehearsed smile.

"Please open up..."

He refused, unsure and just a little frightened by the ordeal.

"I will stick it somewhere else if you don't... I don't think you're too old."

She was straightforward, more like an ordinary person woken up in the middle of the night. That frightened him more, he was feeling especially sheepish after being dragged around... another reason he wanted to go back to bed.

"Okay. Come on, and stand up."

He did, and she sat in his place before expertly shucking his underpants to his shins and pulling him over her knees. He began to become especially frightened, and began to pull his hand slowly to his mouth when he was met with a smart slap to the back of his head.

"You'll ruin your teeth. Stop that nonsense, now."

She didn't even hold onto him as she found the Vaseline she kept in her gown pocket and ran the thermometer over once with greasy fingers before snatching up the back of his nightshirt. He gave a soft squeak of surprise and arched his back, tears welling up. The sheer insecurity of what was going to happen was scaring him beyond belief, and he felt himself really wishing he wasn't bare-bottomed with this woman who was NOT Nursey. Obvious, but still a primary objective. To be truthful, she did this to support her mother living at home for the extra money for the care. She never liked children. Still, here she was, holding a particularly incompetent one over her knee.

Nursey said he could ask her for help whenever he needed it, and that he could trust her. He put as much faith in that as a boy could, even though he never sought out her help. It was the premise.

With a pinch and a whimper fading into a reddened face

that

Does not

Go there.

THAT DOESN'T GO IN THERE!

THAT DOESNT GO IN THERE!!

"Bloody hell! You dirty bloody animal!"

She shoved him off crudely, scoffing at her soiled housecoat and the human waste now on her hand and the thermometer. He landed with a plop on the floor, slapping his head so hard on the tile he felt like crying again, but she had begun storming around angrily. He also found a side effect of his efforts to be a puddle of warmth spreading about his legs and the back of the nightshirt.

She knocked a glass jar of cotton balls off of the shelf, and shouted more obscenities as she washed her hands excessively. Leaving the mess on her housecoat and in front of the chair, she shoved her angrily jiggling body through the doorframe and down the hall.

He quietly punished himself for ever letting that nun see him cry... No, for crying in the first place. Look what has happened! He repeated over and over to himself, "Look what you did!" Until he felt like he understood. Mr. Ruvie came back with Not-Nursey, and the talked quietly to her as she still shouted in the hallway. Reading the analog clock above the door, he saw it was nearly one in the morning.

Looking back in front of him, he truly felt the raw, reverberating pain from the back of his skull, to his eyes, to the corner of his jaws near his ears. His brain in question flew into focus on that pain, and he held it in his hands while he began to whine. This caused him to move his legs slightly, and notice the uncomfortable burn from his behind to his inner thighs that were now cold and still wet with urine.

Another voice joined the conversation outside, and began scolding Not-Nursey's behavior before throwing the door open. The boy was still there, fighting the urge to cry again, although it felt like his head was hurting worse every minute.

It was Mr. Wammy.

When the boy didn't turn to him, he came out in front of him, and saw he was sitting, red-faced and shivering, in his own mess. The older gentleman reached for the boys hands and pulled him up, rubber-soled house shoes meeting the brim of the chilled puddle.

"I will be telling your superiors about this, Mrs. Hitchcock!"

He shouted to her from the hall, she had apparently returned to bed. After brief planning, he was handed over again to Mr. Ruvie and led back the way to his bedroom. His pajamas were heavy and dripping, and his aforementioned personal areas were probably a very angry color of pink- they burned more fervently now. He was stumbling a bit, his head was throbbing and pained as ever. Mr. Ruvie pretended not to notice the little boy walking like a drunk- it was late, after all.

When they got to his dorm room via a system of pointing and nodding, Mr. Ruvie turned on the overhead lamp unceremoniously, waking the three boys inside, but left L outside, saving him that humiliation at least.

He heard low speech, and when he left, he punctuated his departure with a stern, "Now go to sleep, all of you."

He took up L's hand suddenly, and made him jump briefly, be he hurried along with the man making fairly long strides. His own, much shorter legs were burning from the chafe and the sticky itch, and the slimy feeling regarding his behind had become a similar burn. He wanted to stop and sit with his head and his hind quarters still, but the older man said nothing.


	4. Grown Ups and Adults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special attention is required by L as the minutes push on.

Mr. Ruvie, feeling the boy lagging behind him, gave a sharp tug on his arm and he hurried along. A smell of a toddler's massive "uh-oh" was lingering in his nostrils and following them everywhere they went. He felt his palm perspiring even though the child's hand holding it wasn't very warm at all.

They met Mr. Wammy in the hall that held their bedrooms (with attached personal bathrooms). Mr. Wammy in question had gathered some things from Nursey's office, and took the boys hand again readily.

Looking down, and then back at his colleague who was turning, he wondered why didn't he think to let the boy change? Disregarding, he turned his attention to L in question, and led him calmly into his bathroom before kneeling before him.

He hadn't really ever examined L physically, and noticed a certain kind of disproportionality in his features.

His hands were small, yes, but not small enough to match his matchstick arms and trim chest. He wasn't starving, his stomach wasn't bloated and protruding, but laying with his chest. Overall, it seemed he'd been stunted by something, although it didn't seem to matter now.

He was set to grow.

Mr. Wammy spoke softly as to attempt to relax the (obviously, quite visually) unsure boy before him.

"Let's set to getting this off of you, shall we?"

Reaching behind his head, Mr. Wammy undid some snaps L hadn't noticed before, and folded the less soaked front over once before carefully pulling it over his head. His underpants were with the mess in Nursey's office, the gentleman deduced.

His fair skin was already sufficiently irritated and forming a stinging, angry pink rash on the inside of his thighs.

"We can fix that right up after your bath. It'll feel much better then."

L himself was staring ahead blankly, thoughts ebbing and breaking regarding the events recently taking place and... how nice Mr. Wammy was being. No other word but nice came to mind- it was still revolting from the trauma and under massive aching and vertigo. It was difficult to stand perfectly still.

"...Does anything else hurt?"

"My... My head."

His voice came out more tearful than it really felt, but he allowed it to slip by- Oh, did it just hurt!

"Do you know what happened?"

Of course he did! Now, if only there was a polite way to put it- any way at all, really.

"Look at me, come on, did you hit your head?"

He took L's chin in his thumb and forefinger, and put his hand under his armpit to help steady the boy. L nodded, looking down at the man's glasses.

"Did that woman drop you earlier? I heard something..."

L nodded again, putting his hands where it hurt, which was nearly everywhere but his face itself.

"Yeah, I'll put a cold pack on that, maybe give you something to help the pain ....after your bath."

But first, he sat the boy on the toilet and told him to use it if he needed, then turning to collect everything he'd need after L was clean. The gentleman knew he probably had a pounding headache and was about to drop- he didn't want to prolong the child's suffering.

And so, he gathered the towels, baby powder, diaper cream (Nursey kept it for frequent bedwetters or poorly trained five year olds), the clean clothes, and a pair of his thick socks while L "took care of business".

Entering once more, he lifted the child into the tub, marveling at how lightweight he was. After rolling his sleeves, he took the beige washcloth he had brought and wet it with warm water from the tap. He gathered up a bar of round, perfectly ivory soap and pressed it into the rag, rubbing intermittently.

Thus began the process of more preparation.

"How are your classes? Do you like them?"

L nodded again, although he thought they were absolutely uninteresting.

"... You can tell me if you're bored. They might be too easy, we chan change them. In fact, I know they're too easy for you. We can discuss that later."

He smiled at the boy in the tub and folded the washcloth into a square, and started on his face very, very lightly, as one would dust fine china or treat incubator-bound babies. L let him do what he wanted, enthralled in drowsiness and that omnipresent headache in the pleasantly steaming bathwater. The man had his chin tilted slightly towards him with his left hand, wiping away the itchiness and the uncomfortable heat it held, the warmth relaxing the discomfort.

Being cared for was a luxury alien to him, but somehow expected. He sought to enjoy it, at whatever cost. He liked this. This was good- unlike so many other things.

He was only seven years old, and his conscious couldn't translate his thoughts into more descriptive terms. No matter what he was- he was a child. He always would be. He was very vulnerable, gentle at this stage- frail to many qualifications. His body had taken beatings, and his limbs were bandy like the limbs of a crabapple tree after the harvest. Eyes, lovingly melded, were slipping around out of anxiety, an attention disorder, or the rapid procession of thoughts outpouring.

Then, Mr. Wammy washed his shoulders and arms once-over before asking the lamb to stand and running over the insides of his thighs and personal areas, being especially careful, but causing minor suffering for the sake of total cleanliness. Frowning, he uncovered the damage that can be done by an accident and plenty of walking in about an hour.

Finishing, he took L back out of the bath, and wrapped a white towel around his round shoulders, patting him dry, and being slightly suprised when he was greeted with a slightly damp face leaning on his chest through his flannel pajamas. Satisfied with the bath he had given, he took away the towel and began to talk reassuringly once more.

He stood L apart from his own person and gawked momentarily, his speech stalling momentarily. After a few months taken in, the boy was still thin as a rail and uncomfortably detached. Seven year olds are particularly clingy before they become self-aware, this one seems to deny himself. The gentleman readied the tube of Desitin feeling a sense of wonderment- what else is there for a child to think of without parents, friends, or even toys? Schooling couldn't possibly take it all up. It would be either marvelous or horrid, whatever suited at the time.

"This might feel cold, but you need to trust me. This will keep it from getting worse- and it might go away come tomorrow morning."

The older man uncapped the cream and put a generous dab on his finger before reaching out... for L to jump back a touch, shaking his head with his eyes wide. He looked ultimately preposterous, like a baby bird out of it's avian context.

"Please don't be afraid, I promise it'll feel better. I'm afraid you can't really see what's... needing it, or I would let you do it yourself."

With more coaxing and mildly taking the little imp by the hand, he was able to move his lithe body over his own smarting knees and carefully applied the noxious smelling substance. After re-dressing him (by now, his lamb was looking more like a gray, spoiled piece of left over lambchop from fatigue), he looked him over again. It was surely late, and his roommates would not take kindly to being awakened. And so, Mr. Wammy devised a plan. He was the owner of the orphanage, and there is no protocol for this sort of thing. Common sense centered around the church was generally the guide.

"Would you mind sharing a bed?"

Well, wasn't that pedophilic sounding of him. The child obliged him, and nestled himself in the aftershave-perfumed covers made so over time and time again the groomed gentleman had slept. The older man watched the youngster fall asleep readily, almost falling directly unconscious. Reassured that all would end well, Mr. Wammy cut off the light and allowed himself rest.


	5. Blind Passage of Time No. 1 (Or, A Brave Boy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grows.

In the morning, thus began a steady understanding of observation between the two.

Mr. Wammy began to run more experiments to test the waters on his limits, and they laid with the skills unfulfilled within seven years. He could do more of what he could do than the average boy, but the abstract like when he would learn... just certain little things with his cognitive development. A good thing was his advanced working memory, allowing him to recall immediately to solve patterns. He swore by completely subjective morality, and while there was an obvious sense of which consequence was greater, he would immediately flit back to it's inital wrongness. The subject of his understanding of empathy versus egotism was very cloudy by the test results: it seemed much more egotistical if one had to guess. [Egotism does not equal conceit, as per definition and use in the subject of development.]

And so, L saw plenty of psychologists who told him the same thing, blaming it on various causes. Many fell plainly on abuse and neglect as per the notes on his medical record.

His classes were changed around, Mr. Wammy searching for the right pace and the right environment as well as the right subject. His penmanship was improved by Mrs. Fowler, his English skills cheerlessly improved by Mrs. Englebright, and his curiosity explored by Mr. Creach.

Mr. Creach was the organic and inorganic chemistry instructor, and taught L about elements, protons, bonds, and elemental properties during the recess periods.

Mr. Creach and his wife lived almost on campus, within walking distance if you didn't mind the inclination to the hill. His dear wife did, but he did not. Such disputes accurately defined their relationship. During a simple experiment involving the rapid polymerizaion of p nitro aniline and discussing reactions, he noticed the boy he held back behind his arm startling once the dark column erupted from the beaker. He was a startler, but recovered with clumsy readiness.

"Oh..."

"Now you see it?"

"Yes... I think I do."

Taking his hand from stroking his beard in admiration of his student's success, he laid it upon the boy's lightly fleshed shoulder. Black eyes drifted up from his lab notebook and up to the man before him.

"I hope to see you in Chemistry classes when you get your credits."

L nodded, the black mop atop his head knocking into his eyes. It reached his shoulders now, and attempted to hide everything above his nose. He was nine years old.

"Yes sir."

After the boy had helped clean up and gathered his things, the two set out together into the hallway. Steps teased the wood, each tap affirmed by a satisfactory echo.

"You're going to be a very brave boy someday."

L turned towards the sound, lips parted.

"Yes..." The man muttered, blind to being observed. What had mattered had been said.

L grew steadily, once two inches when he was eight, then the rest muddled along. For the time being, he was still a small boy, and his face took a resting appearance of dissatisfaction in it's confusion of being neither sharp nor pudgy. It was growing towards the former, but stuck inbetween.

His roomates grew and changed rapidly, running this way and that way around the growing metropolis rising within their minds. They raced on the russet tracks, around and around, bounding furhter, higher, faster, while L seemed to be standing in the midst of it. Reaching forth his hands and dropping the first fruits upon the grass, feeling the sunlight through the windowpanes and the shrouds of fuzz shielding the sun itself. He grew quietly, and only when one stepped back could they sense his new height and thickened bough, his newly budded blossom, and the second bounty of fruit forming pea sized pearls of green.

The breeze moved his hair about gently, swirling in the corner as he flipped through a book. The sun shone, unwavering and warm, allowing him to warm his thin frame from the interior chill. Being cooped up was admittedly preferred, but gave him an inescapable chill at every moment of every day. He still dressed in light summer clothes to avoid suspicion of being feverish, but favored long sleeves. His arms felt gangly and awkward bare.

His hair in question, which we strayed from, was growing and reached over his ears now. He hair that hung in his face was roughly severed, and gave the appearance of hair much cought after by female models. Short pseudo-bangs, and an overgrown boyish haircut. On him, he looked ragtag, which wasnt too far from the true financial status of the orphanage. It was hidden well, but this mop of hair in particular served to mock their efforts.

Mr. Wammy still met with the boy, and enjoyed their time together. L was fairly pleasant company, unusual for a boy of his age, and unusual, also, of a child to be so thoughtful. Almost daydreaming. He still maintained a level of competence beyond his years.


	6. ax²+bx²= c²

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ten year old needs more assistance, and his need is filled with hostility.

His new math class was great.

After studying a packet explaining the concepts of algebra, geometry, and trigonometry on his own for about a month, he was able to join a class on elementary math function, which led into calculus, and shortened as EMF. A ten year old L gathers his things to leave the classroom after the bell. The rest of his classmates in that were of varied ages 14-18, all of them surpised, but not shocked, that some kid would be able to join them. The school was full of geniuses like that.

Freaks.

Geoff Mallory felt a twinge of jealousy. In his final year, he knew he wasn't skilled in mathematics beyond algebra, but nevertheless did not appreciate a little freakazoid kid wiping the floor with him. Truthfully, he never said anything to anyone, only answering Mrs. Nguyen's questions when she asked with a solid front of competence framed by his ill-kept hair.

Geoff was a "Big Brother" on his hall, and he never really caused trouble more than the average kid, but was always a little guy of few words. Extremely few, whenever possible. Really boring, nothing much to like or to mess around with.

He was still inherently jealous.

Even though his aspirations to become a biochemist were coming along quite well, every human has the time and the effort for jealousy. He didn't bother really brewing it over, but was nevertheless hostile regarding the feelings.

That night, L went to sleep in his light green flannel pajamas- but found only the top. The bottoms must have been somewhere... but he put on a raggedy pair of gray sweatpants instead and climbed into the sheets.

He woke up suspiciously warm, and slipped his hand towards his pants to find that yes, the undesirable outcome had occurred. Laying back, he sniffled and thoughts raced through his mind regarding what to do.

Really, this could have gone one of two ways. Smoothly, or the path it was destined to take every single time.

Climbing out and shuddering at how his sweatpants clung in all the wrong places, he made his way to the door in the middle of the hall, a yellow sign on the door. Without looking to read it, he knocked.

A haphazard "Coming!" stumbled through the air as the older boy inside did, then swinging open the door.

Geoff looked down to see him standing with his gray pants obviously soaked in the crotch, and the eyes looking up at him having no idea how much he loathed this task. The headache springing from leaping out of bed and finding a shirt left him not quite in the mood to be patient, the subject requiring his help making him question whether or not he would mind the damage to he reputation if he refused.

Of course he agreed.

"Wet your bed?"

The child in front of him crinkled his nose slightly, but nodded, now avoiding direct eye contact.

"Alright. Let's get this taken a care of."

They walked promptly to his dorm room, and Geoff threw on the overhead light switch with no regard for his roomate. There was none- his roomate was accepted on a full ride scholarship to boarding school and returned to the orphanage for holidays only. Geoff stripped the bed and expertly packed the sheets into a pillowcase before attempting to take L by the elbow. The smaller boy leaned away, offering his hand as a substitute.

Geoff let out a scoff and led him out to the hall with nothing but his pace to lead and reveal how irritated he was becoming. All patience was dissolving- if the kid was so smart, why couldn't he just do this himself?

"Alright, kid. Here's how you do this. Turn the dial up to here, hot. Cool if it's red. Turn the load up to medium- this is a big machine. The stepstool is right there. Dump the sheets in, close the lid and press the dial in. Like so-"

He followed his own directions and pushed the dial in with a satisfying click, then turning back to L.

"Are you following?"

"Yes..."

The kid was shifting uncomfortably, his pants still clinging everywhere with a disgusting stickiness as the cold urine was drying on his legs and his underpants inside.

"...Why didn't you change when we were in your dorm?"

"..."

L had no reply, slipping his thumb back by his mouth.

"Bloody hell..."

Geoff muttered as he snatched L's hand away from his mouth and escorted him back to the dorm room. He pointed for L to get fresh clothes, and then grabbed him roughly by the shoulder off to the shared washrooms. L came out in fresh pajamas, but Geoff still smelled something amiss.

"You smell like you've been rolling in it. Try again."

The second time, Geoff tried something different.

"You still smell horrible, come along now."

Taking L by the elbow, he dragged the boy back into the washroom and into a dingy shower stall before pulling the clothes crudely off of him, tossing them aside, turning on the hot tap after he had taken a step back, and pushing L inside by his shoulderblade. His pale, bony behind hit the wet floor and the drain with a slick plap.

"Wash up."

L began to wash himself, then let out a sharp squeak when he felt the full effects of the hot tap that was now nearly burning his delicate skin.

"Wash until I can't smell it."

"It's burning!"

He still washed in a panicked haze, and Geoff reached around the scalding waterfall to turn it off. L was blushing red as a beet, so he thought, from the heat. Having his clothes shoved at him, Geoff offered him more advice as he turned his back.

"Get dressed."

"B-"

"Oh, Christ, do I have to help you with that, too!? Can't you do anything?"

Without waiting for the response, he forced the shirt over a darkly haired head, and was greeted by it headbutting him square in the nose. Geoff stumbled back onto the tiled floors, eyes opening in a freshly begotten fury. When the now almost sheepish thing looked up, he began to murmur apologies.

"Shut up! Augh! You bloody little freak! You impudent little bastard!"

He snatched the boy up by his upper arm, and came close to slapping him, but picked him up by his underarms and yanked his underpants up too high, the same with his pajama pants. The boy reflected dimly how this had been a bad idea all along, and how he really should have just gone back to sleep and forgotten this had happened. It was early, and it wasn't the time to wake people up. He didn't mean to make his elder so angry. He truly didn't want to make everyone so angry.

In all truth, Geoff was only patient with bacteria and plants. His ultimate sincerity won him his position, but he had always been a very cold competitor. L was his competition, and very vulnerable. It wasn't complicated to know what motives were present.

"Look at me!"

Dark eyes were turned towards the tiling.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

This was punctuated by the rough shaking recieved as Geoff's face became alarmingly rubicund in his fury. He gripped the boy's arms tighter and tighter by the second, like a blood pressure test gone awry. L flicked his eyes up and struggled to keep from quivering, expecting something, but not knowing what.

Geoff released him, then took a hold on the collar of his shirt and took him back to where the washer and dryer sat in the maintenance closet. Then, flung the sheets into the dryer. Unnerved, but antsy, L spoke up.

"H-How do you use that one?"

Coolly, Geoff replied.

"Just wait."

The dryer was old, and one had to be careful taking things out of it, or they may burn their hand where the metal exposed would still be unreasonably hot.

It dried too quickly, really, the moment was expected to be excruciatingly long.

"Take out the sheets."

L walked calmly to the dryer, opened it with a brief fight (thank goodness it was a front loader like the washer, or he couldn't have reached it) and reached inside for his sheets.

Wait for it...

"Ow!"

Geoff smirked as L recoiled back, holding his left hand cupped by his right. The kid's eyes were closed, and his mouth drawn out in an uncertain, crooked line. It hurt like a bitch, and Geoff felt a sick satisfaction at watching it happen. With a breath drawn in, L kept at the task of collecting them, and gathered them all up in his arms. They covered his face, L was still a small boy, not yet hitting a growth spurt.

Fantasizing people in pain wasn't new to Geoff. He's always enjoyed the barking of dogs, squeaks of mice, and the screams and shouts of chimps in live animal testing at the lab he would intern at occasionally. He adored their sullen, half disfigured faces as much as he did the discoveries they entailed.

Following L carting his sheets back to the bedroom, he felt much less angry, but still measurably vengeful for the time being.

When they got into the dorm, the sheets were snatched back and quickly assembled onto the bed, and Geoff turned back to L, who was shivering from still being partly damp.

"Get in."

The ten year old shied away, now holding his scalded hand again. He couldn't shake that he'd done everything wrong- boys as old as he was shouldn't even wet the bed. And now, he had someone who knew, and was angry at him. Why would he walk towards him now?

"Get in, now."

L stodd there, frozen. Geoff was flown into a fury again, and snatched him up before slapping him down on top of the covers. Before he could feel L shout out, he made a tight seal around the small mouth.

"Don't. Go to sleep."

Releasing him, he watched as L stayed still on top of his bed. A smile was trying to force it's way up on the elder's chin, but he kept it at a stern frown of disproval as he left, turning the light back off.

Bathed in the dark, L sat up, shivering from the chill. Feeling around, he found a clean pair of underpants and his winter pajamas, putting them on and hitting his shin against anything imaginable.

Shaking his hair out, he racked his brain for what he did, but came to the stern conclusion that it was a combination of being a ten year old who wet the bed still, and existing. But, never before had he met so much hostility from anyone... The older boy just seemed to have wanted to injure him.

Which was okay... But his shoulders hurt from being dragged and yanked about, as his his derrière from falling in the shower, and his hand from making a fool of himself and burning himself on the dryer.

Oh, God! What if he got in trouble? He'd know L turned him in... and no one would miss him if he went on a drive in the country. Even if he didn't say anything, if anyone else did, he was the primary suspect.

He wouldn't admit it, but he felt unsafe. Crawling into the bed the older boy had made for him felt wrong, just kind of sickening. He struggled to fall asleep, and quietly wished again he wasn't alone, only to punish himself a little inside. With his luck, someone worse would come.

And so, he took his pillow in his hands and pressed his face into the beaten feather conglomerate as hard as he could to avoid the tears. He shushed himself, murmering "Go to Sleep" in a higher pitch than his speaking voice- just to hear some other sound meet his ears.

 

He curled his hair around his fingers and tugged gently, enjoying how it had grown out and felt like hair. Having his hair cut short made him feel exposed; his ears would grow cold, or grow pink under the summer lashings of the sun. He liked having something there to feel, to have mussed and smoothed, and to splay when he moved.

 

He slowly stumbled upon the realization that he couldn't sleep, but could pry himself away from the dense cushion he held. Laying alone in the darkness of the bedroom of many others before him, he felt -for the first time in his young life- sleepily numb as he mulled over more cries against his state of being.


	7. √ax²+bx²= c

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In any private orphanage, full avoidance of one person is seldom had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I bet you will want to know why we're still in childhood. It's because we have an important event in his teens, but jumping that far in the timeline wouldn't fit, and we needed to touch the middle. Just before he becomes a "teen", the oldest part of pure childishness. It's pretty important. Third grade, man. Third grade.
> 
> Things will heat up, but for now, he is still small.

Later, but not more than a week, Mr. Wammy brings up a peculiar offer during a meeting over donuts after breakfast. He does this to examine L's interests, and to make some sense of the perfect test scores and unsure categorizing test results. The gentleman had never seen anything quite like it. Highly developed analytical skill and methodical problem solving- perhaps even algorithmic in nature. The surprising factor was that L lacked many of the social factors leading to a diagnosis of an ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), only a few were present, and even then they were very common things.

He behaved like a normal child in emotional responses. He cried when he felt humiliated or too lonely, he was afraid of things that attempted to harm him, and he enjoyed frivolous things, especially sweets and candies. He didn't take to toys and games, they failed to amuse him. He enjoyed being challenged, and craved the short-lived satisfaction of figuring things out. He loved puzzles reflexively.

And so, the gentleman knew he was a legitimate, functioning member of society, but had undeniable quirks.

"L, I am taking a class of boys around your age to a museum in London, and we will get ice cream after. I thought you might like to go."

The boy nibbled on the sticky pastry and kept eye contact to show his involvement in what had been said.

"It's to a natural history museum, not quite your area of interest, but I am going, and it might be nice to get out of here for a little bit."

"Yes, I believe I would like to go. Thank you."

The older fellow smiled, excited that his little "project" had something fun to do that didn't involve puzzles and mathematics (which were basically puzzles themselves, but with numerical values). L was, admittedly,  _excited_  about this trip, and looked forward to it. He thought about it a few times of the day, which would strike him as odd if it didn't make him feel...  **happier** as a byproduct. A few days later, they discussed details over chocolate cake stowed cleverly away by the cook.

"I'm taking three chaperones from the seniors, and we'll split up into groups."

"Who is going?"

A polite question, good conversation.

"The chaperones will be Parker Milton, Johnathan Tyler Atkins, and Geoff Mallory- is anything wrong?"

He hadn't noticed that his eyes widened when the man in front of him had said it, and calmly collected himself, head buzzing like a machine to print out a solid excuse.

"I just remembered... I need to study."

"Could you get that done this afternoon? Tomorrow?"

"I... I need to study generally speaking, and utilizing this weekend would be best."

Sitting back, Mr. Wammy's face folded a crease of worry under his well-groomed mustache.

"You've been very excited about this, what has made you change you mind so quickly?"

Oh, right. He had wanted to go. He forgot for a moment, and put his fork down gently on his plate as he gave it a thought. He really, really did want to go, but there was Geoff.

He knew his name: he saw him in math class. And, he remembered exactly what happened. He absently rubbed at the back of his hand. Geoff didn't take kindly to him. Avoidance was very effective. Being possibly led around by him unsupervised was a very, very bad idea. Slowly, L convinced himself to stay home.

"I was told about a few upcoming tests today in class."

Looking down, he swallowed, and didn't find the strength to lift the tuft of chocolate to his lips. Begging himself to not get upset, he focused on what he could say they were working on in EMF. Nothing came to mind.

"Is... is something wrong? I thought you wanted to go. Ice cream?"

A tidal wave of excuses washed over him. "If you tell, he'll know." rang through his head like a siren. He thought to the one time anyone other than Them opened the door- a cleaning lady. He had been told to slip away under the stair... even with the towels, dirt, and garbage littering every surface of the floor as well as the bucket, they can just say they kept a dog and lie about the vicious, pungent slop in the tin bucket. They can get out of that.

What they couldn't get out of was anyone knowing he was there. He never understood why.

The only reason he knew his excuse was when a man's voice rung out, telling the woman, "Our dog died there yesterday, I'm very sorry, we haven't gotten around to cleaning up, and I'm  _sure_  you don't want to go down there.". He gently led her away and slammed the door, bathing everything in the dark again. It had been a long while ago this happened, he'd been at Wammy's for about five years.

"... I need to study, Mr. Wammy. I'm sorry."

He was apologizing to himself more than anything else. Again, he actually wanted to do this one thing.

"Well... Just tell me if you change your mind before then... Are you feeling well? You've hardly touched your cake."

"I'm not very hungry this afternoon."

"I see you aren't."

They sat in inquiring silence. L eventually finished his cake and left to think this through- Wammy took the plates back to the kitchen and washed them before returning to his miscellaneous duties as the head of the house.

The day of the trip, Mr. Wammy asked once more after catching L in the hallway.

"Are you sure you're not going? We leave in half an hour."

"I'm sure."

The man was looking down on him, but lowered himself on one knee before continuing.

"Are you sure it's not something bothering you? You were fine until I mentioned the chaperones... Is one of them bullying you around?"

"No."

Sighing, the gentleman slipped a hand under L's chin and kissed his forehead.

"There will be more outings, and I will be taking you on those. Have a good day."

He had risen and left, leaving the child dumbfounded. Why... Why did he get a kiss? He owned an orphanage, it's not like Mr. Wammy was his father...

Although, he thought about it, and decided that he would like Mr. Wammy to be his father if he had the choice.

He didn't.

He quietly trekked into the hallways and peeked around corners. Nothing but older boys studying, the younger ones were playing in the courtyard. It was spring, and the weather was very favorable that day. After taking another lap around the halls, he slipped out a door and sat outside the science hall under a young apple tree.

It was just big enough to provide him a pool of shade to sit under, the leaves happily jittering in the balmy breeze. The day was pleasantly warm.

The grass parted this way and that when he sat on it, and soft blades tickled his fingers. The organic chemistry class (or whoever, he couldn't be sure) had created a fertilizer for the tree and the grass, and it had been measurably successful. He sat still and let the sunlight touch his face, warmth flooding to his chest and his face.

There was really nothing more to do, and so he fell asleep.

He woke to the lunch bell ringing in the science hallway; the sound met him through an opened door. Literally, an open door allowed him to hear it. Lifting his shoulder from his indentation in the grass, then picking up his head that still drooped with sleep, he fully awoke. The grass had been pressed to the dirt and made a perfect outline of his body. Placing a hand into it to support himself, he felt it was warm; the grass felt like the fur of a slumbering animal.

It breathed, pushing the stray strands off of his nose. He stood on a protruding, rugged rib spreading slowly out of the shade, and it shifted. Looking down into the carved marks and crevasses on it's surface...

It was a she.

Her name was "LISA", apparently, as was etched onto her rib. She loved, or perhaps still loves, "JEREMY".

He walked across her, and she shifted beneath his feet, but he took a stronghold in the building. Looking back, he swore he could see her body rise with breath that once again blew into his face.

He closed the door behind him and made his way into the dining hall and then into an empty chair. Different company, two brothers and their friend. Ages nine, thirteen, and thirteen again, two sporting rich, chestnut brown hair. The second older boy was a blonde.

The trio talked quietly during the meal, and L listened in the manner he'd long perfected. Eavesdropping was serious business; it was crucial if he was ever to make progress where counselors measured. He just had to figure out what people like to talk about, and work up the nerve to say anything.

Truthfully, he was as clueless as everyone else regarding the cause of his diversion of communication with his peers. What was certain was that there have been scant successful ventures, and now he felt extremely wary of the other children. It wasn't the same as wanting to be by himself... he never wanted that.

They talked about what to do this evening. L learned there would be a kickball game that afternoon, maybe an attempt at rugby, and that the library was full of students studying for some exam.

He was awful at sports, but found himself a good ways away on a stump in the edge of the forest, spectating the game. It beat the crick in his neck his nap gave him.

Picking at a thistle that had attached to his shirt, he diverted his attention for the moment containing the rubberized ball hurling in a straight line towards him. The tree takes the hit, conveniently placed in front of L to prevent this day from becoming even more tragic when it begins to lighten up.

Still, a young man retrieving said ball looked briefly into the woods and believed he'd seen a phantom. He walked away, eyes wide, but our focus's were wider. He had been caught suspiciously in the woods.

It was  _suspicious_.

The game still drabbled on with confidence and confusion; it was played by primarily the older years, set apart by sweat, struggling facial hair, naked ankles, or a combination. The truly older ones and the senior residents were the ones studying away in the library, their dorms, or one of the sitting rooms. Overall, it was much less exciting then the games tended to be, there were many verbal skirmishes that stalled the action, and weren't loud enough to overhear. The sky kept it's happy clarity.

In the shade, the breeze was colder and unwelcome. After one more kick, he slunk out of his hiding place and back inside of the building. Lisa had not come to greet him, anyway.

What the boys at lunch said was true, nearly every chair and crevice in the corner was full of a studying student. Some were finishing up, but the room felt just as full, just like no one had left or entered in the longest time. The playroom, the west parlor adjacent to it, and the small dining hall were the least populated, but a few did exist there. They were primarily reading for pleasure.

He took a large puzzle from the stack, one that was attempted, but never finished. He laid it out on the table and set to assembling it.

A small group of spectators gathered as he set to sorting and connecting the pieces in record time. It wasn't logic to assist him, but cognitive memory and patience. Really, patience played a role above all.

That's what he told himself, at lease, but understood that this feat would impress some.

It was finished in about an hour and nine minutes, and revealed a Monet.

Mr. Wammy found L precisely where he had left him, in the hallway.

"There you are! Did you have a good day? Were you bored?"

It was obvious he had worried about L, which was a fairly new subject to be brought to light.

"I am okay."

"I see that... We'll talk more at dinner."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puberty at it's finest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I haven't updated either of my fics, school is happening. Between private music lessons, wind band, French club, church choir, social priorities, family responsibilities, physical exhaustion, and standardized testing season, I haven't had many opportunities to sit down and focus. This is looking like it will peak in the summer, when I can sit and devote time to what I want this to be. Still working, but with the delays mentioned previously until I can be freed from my educational obligations.

Puberty was an unwelcome, however necessary change. More growth- sometimes at completely impolite times- and the new smog over his head of what he would do about everything and anything.

It came with whatever knowing "normal" was, and arrived in a similar mechanism.

And, it was then that he realized that he was absolutely waifish, his hair was animalistic and unsightly, and that no one else thought this about themselves. Women worried about it, and women alone.

The strangest part was that he didn't care when it came to what he wanted. He didn't care at all. But, he (thought, at least) knew others cared. What impression did it make? What would happen?

What would go wrong now?

It was an anxiety that festered and writhed like an effervescent tab in a glass of water, but that wasn't so pertinent as to settle. Nothing changed outwardly, except for a newfound intolerance for the occasional knot in his hair. It had been cut again short, and made his face look phantomlike in length and it's emptiness of marks and blemishes save for the few and the timid. 

His clothes began to fit more and more poorly as the weeks fled, either hanging off of him or hiked up to embarrassing crevices and showing off his bony ankles.

He found a fresh few pairs of pants as soon as possible that fit in the ranges of mediocracy, and was content. He received a short lecture from Nursey about what was happening, as well as a halfhearted talk from Ruvie (which was a surprise), but still did not understand who the people in his dreams were doing to him and why it felt so good.

Or, why there was physical evidence of this in his underpants the next morning.

New expectations were also being tossed at him, leading up to the eventual decision of some sort of sociological study or to become a mathematician. Mathematics classes were becoming more complex, and he had gotten out of geology to pursue the hard sciences as well as a plethora of histories. That, and French. C'est embetant.

He still wandered, but less given his preoccupation with his studies and the simple urge to sit in his bedroom alone.

A simple urge that invited such diverse thoughts and feelings that all added up to rising discomfort. He rationalized quickly that he didn't like being around his peers, and upon questioning why, he found he felt lonelier in their presence. What he couldn't have would follow him then.

He was fourteen when he started to feel empty, but like a cedar box on a hot day. Full of hot air, and nothing at all to calm it down. It burned inside of him, from his gut up to his sinuses darting across his face. Everything hurt, and crying about it did nothing. No one came, no one asked anything. It made sense that way.

He wasn't a child anymore, or a girl, he wasn't anything that garnered pity. There were plenty others; young boys, the ones who everyone likes, might get adopted. They could have some comfort, to keep them from being broken in the transitional place they were in.

It was painful to remember when he was just... stupid as a little kid. Getting breaks because everyone thought he had a "problem".

So, what? He did, in fact, have a problem. By no means could he ever rationalize what, but it was harder and harder to maintain his distance. It was painful to be polite for so long. His head disconnected from talent; he learned and applies as he was expected to.

So many times he wanted to do nothing more than to race into Mr. Wammy's office and jump on top of him, to claw at him until he got what he wanted all along. But that was never going to happen, he could never muster up the courage.

Mr. Wammy, however, approached him with ease and expressed his concerns for L's spiritual health- yet another mysterious new plane of self coming to light. Atheism had not yet been realized to him. He was older than the usual student, but was attended to directly by Wammy. He was given an Act of Contrition, but was not told that this was from Mr. Wammy's family lineage, not the Act that was taught to wards of the orphanage.

He and the priest didn't know this.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession."

And, then came the lies shuffling indignantly from his lips along with the ants swarming over him of the uncertainty.

The priest cleaned his throat, and there was silence.

"Son, I don't believe you need this."

"Wh... Father?"

"Let's think really, _really_ hard about what I'm running. This is a church to glorify and spread the word of Christ. Did you know there is an opposing force?"

"Y-"

"Satan. He's got a feast day, your birthday. You were born into Satan's arms. It shows. We all see how evil you are. You can't fool God; there is no chance of outsmarting him."

"I... I don't understand."

"Get out."

"Wh-"

"Get out. Don't bother with Mass."

He got up quietly and left, willing his shaking limbs to quiet. Mr. Wammy caught his eye when he exited, and smiled faintly at him before he made his way back into the pew.

That night, as he laid on top of the quilts, he succumbed himself to the tears pushing up under his eyes. Even though it all seemed so silly, he... he expected to-

He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew what had happened wasn't nice at all. Left feeling sick, he put his legs to his chest and laid on his side, facing the window, letting everything hurt quietly.

A knock at the door brought Mr. Wammy's voice through the wooden frame.

"Hello, are you awake? The light was on..."

"Yes, I am."

"I won't bother you for long, but I am so proud of you. Did everything go well?"

"..."

"...L? Are you feeling alright? You look awfully flushed."

The hug took the gentleman by surprise, but he wrapped his arms around the ward nevertheless and rubbed the back of his shirt absently. A strong pat could be felt whenever the older sensed a change in L's stance- when he was scared senseless that he'd begin to bawl and ruin the illusion.

The lie, really. That's all it was.

With a curt goodnight and a goodbye, they broke, and Wammy had disappeared back behind the closed door.

It soon came to be a pattern over weeks and months that skin on his shoulders would prickle at night and would bite the inside of his lip, sensing the chaos giving him tremors.

In the morning, he was still and quiet, nothing was wrong.

This remained a pattern, the anxious nights and solemn days, until he found himself resisting sleep altogether.

Paranoia was like a small dog. Sitting at the foot of the bed, or struggling at the closed door to jubilantly recover it's master. The leash was attaching them, and soon L found that he wasn't strong enough to resist the tug outside/inside/far, far away. Just away, never where, never even why.

Barking and barking and _barking_ and **_BARKING_** at him when he tried so hard to still the blood pounding through his head.

Something was wrong; he didn't deny it. The qualm laid in how to fix it.

Still, life carried on. His request for a bedroom to himself was granted- they removed his roomate's few articles (mind, he was sent to another boarding school he was enrolled in by his parents) the next day.


	9. Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A person leaves his body- something he'd begged for, but what to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, these exciting tags come into play! That's all I will reveal... >:)

Seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years and scores and centuries and

 All of them were laid out on fleshy tables as time slowed to a halt and the weight shackling him lightened to nothing. The blood sloshed in his head as the glassy tablets were forgotten and his hands ran through the haircut he'd outgrown. It returned to his ears when the strands found it appropriate to be dropped.

The room around him was stuffy smelling, the brown and the deep colors positively rancid tasting in the lightbulb that couldn't be dim enough.

Overall, his head felt dumb and heavy through this synesthesesic purgatory, and he felt the need to dislocate his bones to become smaller and thrash about simultaneously. The empty bed was gone, and there was scant evidence to prove that a bed had ever existed across the room. It was as if he had always existed in this solitude.

 He knew better, but the current information was much more relevant to his thoughts.

 In came the shame and the panic, smacking him around with sledgehammers as he sat paralyzed.

 When he was freed, the panic had set in so far as to demand to be felt. The undertones of gloom and frustration had been mixed into a brightly colored concoction staining his face and his eyes in fluorescent red.

He attempted to quell the discomfort with idleness, but the olden chant laid true: idle hands are Satan's workshop.

Everything stalled to silence when he stood, but incrementally grew in dissonant volume when he stopped moving. He couldn't stop.

He was also very finished with the idea of remaining calm and passively allowing the smog to consume him.

His face pried his locked jaw apart and pushed his contravention through his windpipe.

Of course, then he was merely screaming.

Silencing himself, he scrambled over to the mirror above his dresser. In it laid a disheveled picture scratching hands through his hair before they picked up the hairbrush and nearly cracked the mirror at the corner- but missed and dented the wall.

He began to dig through the drawers. The door swung open to reveal two of his peers, and to witness the wooden drawer be flung into the window. A sound of shattering and splintering filled the air for a fraction of the second, and one of the other boys brought L to the ground.

It was all lost so quickly; L couldn't have been sure whether he continued to screech out into the quiet of frustration or grieving the muteness he displayed religiously.

Mr. Wammy forced himself through the crowd and into the doorway where he saw the boys wrestling. Taking matters into his own hands, he pried the other boy off and restrained L more effectively. He was, after all, the gentleman's responsibility.

"You did well, Edward, now find Mr. Ruvie or Nursey, and tell them to ring up the Hospital-"

"The mental hospital, sir?"

"Yes. Or the ward, whatever. Nursey would know."

All the while, the shouting and mad screaming had subsided, leaving way for irritated sobs and similar cries.

"Please, return to your chambers, this is under control."

Mr. Wammy dismissed the crowd, and still held L firmly to the ground. When the crowds had dissipated, he began to let L up, still keeping a firm hold on him.

Like a bony rag doll, the youth allowed himself to be sat up and the fearful tears wiped from his face.

"I know, I know, we're going to get you help. You can talk to me-"

"I know." He could barely squeak.

"It's all right. What's the matter?"

How do you explain the feeling that lingers behind without a reason to loiter?

How can you explain why you threw a wooden drawer out of the closed window? How can you explain yourself when you are laying on the concrete amongst the split boards and splintering fragments?

"Shh, can you answer me?"

The skinny, hollow body is where it had been left, here. On the carpeted floor, with Mr. Wammy gently inquiring. Wrapping it's arms around itself as it heard the sirens coming closer and closer.

It looks up at the older man, who sighs of sympathy, or pity, something.

The gentleman sees the bloodshot eyes, the deep irises flitting and staring, not seeing, but looking. The face on the body was wet and pink with tears, the mouth fidgeting and pressed closed to the dissatisfaction of the windpipe. Quiet, pained whining was escaping. The rest of the body was trapped in the clothes he had worn that day, clinging to the edges of the crumpled figure. Quillish knew he was trying very hard- although what for was another matter L did not reveal.

 "I know, they're going to be here very soon. We want to help you."

 The EMTs burst through the door of the little room, and snatched up the youth before shouting questions at bystanders, L, and Mr. Wammy.

After they had the information they needed, Mr. Wammy boarded the ambulance before it could rush away to the hospital.

In the cab, EMTs began to grab his lanky extremities and examine the youth. They found no cuts, no burns, and nothing injured during the episode. Still, they shouted at him if he took any pills. The body shook it's head wildly, mumbling, but they continued. They realized the answer just before the tube was going to be put in, and the rest of the ride was half as chaotic.

Which was a blessing in itself, but hard to think of when one is crumpled on the gurney.

The body felt as if it were under cardiac arrest as molasses seemed to replace the thin air in the cab. The heart was fluttering, thumping out of control in a manner that was almost extremely uncomfortable.

It _was_ extremely uncomfortable.

Once they arrived, they decided to help the body out of the car rather than wheel him around, and treated him gently this time.

They met the resident Psychiatrist inside, and she brought L into a room alone. The barking resumed, but at a steady yapping.

"Hello, L. I need you to talk to me, I know it's been very scary with the ambulances, but please talk to me. It will make all of this so much easier."

The head gave a shallow bob.

"Good, good. There's no one here to hurt you, or judge you, mind- have you attempted suicide?"

"N... No..."

"Okay. Have you thought about it in detail? You can talk about it, we have time."

"N-N-Not in d-detail, I don't know how..."

"I'm glad you don't know how. You'll be re-dressed and put to bed by staff- and I mean, put to bed. Nothing to worry about. You'll be staying with us, and we will talk in the morning in more detail." 

She said it kindly, but with an air of finality.

He was led by her out into the hall to Mr. Wammy, and with guards nearby, the doctor gave her offer.

"We will talk about a diagnosis in the morning. Good night, gentlemen."

Just like that, it was over.

The security stared, eyes bulging out of their thick heads when Mr. Wammy came over and wrapped his arms around the lukewarm body standing before him.

Wordlessly, they split, and two nurses led the youth away. They stripped him, collected samples, and gave him some "appropriate" articles- a long sleeved shirt and secondhand blue jeans that dripped off of him as well as pajamas. He was taken into a hospital bed- for the night, they said- and "slept" there until morning.

When the light was pouring in, he was led through his morning toilette and then out to a mahogany and other stereotypical luxury effects in the office. Mr. Wammy was in a clean suit and sat in the other chair, a gentle smile pushing through to attempt to soothe the shaking youth.

"I can't be sure what this is, but he's poorly acclimated for life outside. Although he could leave, I find it may be best for him to stay with us. Our comprehensive and customizable treatment plan composes of healthy hobbies, psychological therapy, and physical health concerns. He will be safe and fairly content once he gets used to the change."

The body couldn't lift it's head, just sitting limply in that chair, confused between crying and yelling again- or staying as quiet as he could.

"What do you mean 'fairly'?"

"I mean, it's all in the attitude. He should respond well to the program, but I can't give you a concrete start and finish to his stay here. Let's set it at six weeks for the time being-"

"Six weeks?!"

"Yes. His type of violent, destructive behavior you and the investigating police have described warrants some extensive inpatient and outpatient care. We know his IQ scores are outstanding, and this makes him statistically more likely to succumb to mental illness. We have his health and safety in mind, we assure you."

Pale hands quietly clasped around a pack of white post-it notes with the name of the hospital on them and a similarly branded pen apart from the gaze of the two adults.

"What about his academics?"

"With approval of the lead psychiatrist, he can resume in about a week. At cm which point, his instructors should create a videotape, printed speech, or other medium to teach him. He will be alone in his lessons, with a nurse to watch him. We would allow a tutor if you would tend to the production of one."

They kept talking, the words flying back and forth. From the virtually sleepless night, the body was drifting apart from life in the most passive way it could, by drooping itself into misty stages of unconsciousness.

Only to be torn back out the moment Mr. Wammy wanted a word of parting with him. A nurse watched from the door in a small space off of the central hall.

"L, listen, I'm not angry, and I'm not sending you away. I will always be here, and I will come back for you."

The words meant nothing; the bell was shaken without a clapper.

"Do you need anything? What do you want me to bring you to wear here? When I come back, we can say goodbye-"

Fingers took the pen and etched his request on the small notepad. And, then they presented it to he man.

"Are you sure you want these? New, I presume?"

Another writing.

" _Yes_."

"All of them the same? Seven identical shirts, seven pairs of denim pants- this size is a bit large for you-"

" _White shirts. And, yes._ "

Thus began the exactness of life in the ward.


End file.
